


A Question of Trust

by Sineala



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Avengers Vol. 3 (1998), Cap_Ironman Bingo, Community: cap_ironman, Guilt, M/M, Masturbation, Overstimulation, Pining, Scene Gone Wrong, Self-Bondage, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 10:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13522539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: Steve has always considered Tony one of his best friends, and when Tony has a problem, Steve's always willing to help him out. He just never imagined that Tony would want his help in a situation like this one.





	A Question of Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】A Question of Trust一个关乎信任的问题 by Sineala](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952512) by [viola20208102](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viola20208102/pseuds/viola20208102)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Вопрос доверия](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15256710) by [Irmie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irmie/pseuds/Irmie)



> For Cap-IM Bingo, the square "restrained."
> 
> Thanks to Kalashia and Kiyaar for beta and title help, and to phoenixmetaphor for letting me borrow her idea.
> 
> This is probably one of those stories you don't want to read if you get second-hand embarrassment easily. Sorry.

It's important to start the new Avengers team off right.

They finalized the roster this afternoon. The press conference and the team party afterward all went off without a hitch, and Steve's just got this feeling about them. He knows they're going to be good. They've got a couple new faces -- namely, Vance and Angel -- and a lot of old friends. Thor, Carol, Clint, Wanda, Vision. And, of course, Tony. Tony had leaned in during the press conference, nudged him, called him _Mr. Living Legend_ , and reminded him to say _Avengers, assemble_. Honestly, he'd just liked being asked. Especially by Tony. And he's happy that after Onslaught, after everything, he gets to have this team, to run this team with Tony.

Any other feelings he has about Tony are ones that Tony doesn't share and doesn't need to know about.

Tony disappeared toward the end of the party, anyway. He'd headed upstairs to his room, presumably wanting to shuck the armor after the whole day he'd spent wearing it. Steve's down here in the basement with the monitors, holding up his half of being a responsible Avengers co-leader. That is to say, he's writing reports.

Despite what some of the newer Avengers may think, Steve's not always such a stickler for protocol. But, well, it's the first day, and they have a new government liaison, Duane Freeman. The guy even asked for their autographs, which as far as Steve is concerned puts him so far above Henry Peter Gyrich that he might as well be in a separate galaxy. So this guy's new to them, and Steve wants to make sure everything's in order, and that means finishing the first mission reports in a timely fashion.

So, upstairs, the team is drifting off to their bedrooms, and Steve is down here staring at a green-on-black computer screen and finishing the last of his statement about their run-in with Morgan le Fay. His one concession to hedonism is that he changed out of his uniform first. If he's going to be up late writing reports, he at least wants to be comfortable while he does it.

His identicard beeps. It's the non-priority signal, and he fishes it out of his pocket and squints at it curiously. IRON MAN, AUDIO ONLY, the little display says.

Huh. Last he checked, Tony was still upstairs. Usually if Tony wants to see him, he'll just come see him, no ceremony required. He never bothers to call first. Steve glances at the clock. It's close to midnight. Tony ought to be asleep. And if he's not asleep, then he ought to be down here in the basement tinkering with his armor, in which case he'd be down the hall and he'd definitely just swing by. It's strange.

Only one way to find out. Steve taps the card and the voice call connects.

"Captain America speaking," he says.

Even before Tony speaks, Steve can hear something is off. There's an odd buzzing noise in the background, and Tony's breathing is too harsh. Strained.

Steve frowns in dismay. "Iron Man, are you all right?"

"I've got a question," Tony says. The words are panted out, and there's an odd note in Tony's voice that Steve can't quite identify. "Would you-- would you say we're good friends, Steve?"

Now Steve's just staring at the card in confusion. "Yes," he says. "Yes, of course. What's this about?"

"So if," Tony begins, and he's panting for breath, and something about this is very wrong, "if maybe I did something that was -- oh, God -- ill-advised, and maybe I needed some help from a very good friend, a very close friend, someone who wouldn't think less of me, would you--"

Tony doesn't even need to finish the sentence. Doesn't he know the answer? Steve will always be there for him.

"Of course I'll help you," Steve says, instantly. "Whatever it is. I won't think less of you. You know that, Tony." He's already on his feet. "What happened? Where are you?" 

Even as he's speaking, he's got the tracker going on the card. Tony is... upstairs. In his room. Which is exactly where Steve thought he was, but then why didn't he just come here?

Tony makes a noise that might be a sigh, but it still doesn't sound right. He sounds ragged. Exhausted. Desperate, somehow. What in God's name is wrong? "I'm in my room," Tony says, "but you -- are you still downstairs? -- you're going to need the master key. So if you could come up and bring the key with you, that would be good." He pauses, and the buzzing noise in the background is louder. "Uh," Tony says. "Maybe-- maybe fast would be better."

"Okay," Steve says, and he's already pulling open the drawers underneath the main desk, looking for the one where the mansion's master key is. "Okay, yeah, I'm still down here." He spies the key, a glint of silver. "I've got the key. I'll be up in a second." His hand closes around the key, and he realizes Tony never answered his question about what was wrong with him. "But what's the matter?"

"Please hurry," Tony says, another evasion. His voice is hoarse. Is he in pain? What's wrong with him?

The line clicks off.

Key in hand, Steve runs down the empty corridor and takes the stairs up to the main floor two at a time, as a cold ball of anxiety lodges in his gut. What in the world could be wrong with Tony? He said he'd done _something ill-advised_. Steve can't help but think about Tony's drinking, and the ball of anxiety turns into a sickening spear through his heart. God, no, not that. Tony hasn't had a sip in years -- well, since that Vor/Tex thing, and that wasn't even him. Steve had thought that Tony was doing a lot better these days, that the team made him happy, that there shouldn't be any reason for him to want to pick up a bottle. Still, he knows, too, that he's been judgmental in the past, and if Tony thinks he has reasons to drink, Steve might not understand them. God knows he never understood them the last time. But Tony asked for him, this time. Steve can do better. Steve's got to do better.

But Tony didn't _sound_ drunk, he thinks, and there was that strange noise in the background. Was he building something that went wrong? Why would he have been building something in his bedroom? He has an entire workshop for that. And why does Steve need to bring him the master key? He can't have locked himself in. You can't get locked in. The doors all unlock from the inside. It doesn't make any sense.

He supposes he'll find out soon.

The main floor is, thankfully, empty, and when Steve jogs up the main staircase he finds that the second floor corridors are deserted as well; the rest of the team must have already gone to bed. He heads down the hallway and turns, his feet carrying him on the familiar path to Tony's room, next to his.

He's at Tony's door. He hears a very low buzzing noise from inside. It's low enough that a normal human probably wouldn't have noticed; Tony has always splurged on the soundproofing for the mansion.

He knocks, and then he thinks it's probably best if he identifies himself. "Tony?" he calls out. "It's Steve. I brought the master key, like you asked."

There's a pause.

"You're going to need to let yourself in with it," Tony calls back. He's faint enough that he's probably on the far side of the room. His voice sounds labored. He has to be hurting. Something has to be wrong here. "I can't get to the door," he says, like it's an admission of guilt. There's something in his tone that might be shame, embarrassment, Tony's usual brand of self-deprecation. "If you could come in and shut the door behind you as fast as you can, I'd really appreciate it."

What in God's name did Tony _do_? Steve takes a shaking breath. Well, he's going to find out now.

It takes him two tries to get the key in the lock. Since Tony asked him to get inside quickly, he doesn't even look around enough to see Tony. He keeps his head down, opens the door, steps inside. Eyes fixed on the hardwood floor, he turns around and pushes the door shut fast enough that it closes with a resounding thud. He turns back. He looks up.

Tony is on the bed.

Tony is naked.

It's so far from what Steve was expecting that he can hardly process it at first. Tony is lying on his side; his head is pointed away from Steve, on the pillow with the rest of him angled so that at this vantage point Steve can see most of the front and back of him at the same time. There are leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, each one secured with a gleaming padlock. His arms and legs are pulled behind him in what looks like a very secure hogtie; there's a mess of rope running between the rings on the wrist and ankle cuffs. It can't be a comfortable position; he can see Tony's arms and legs shaking with strain, and Tony's skin, golden in the light, is covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Tony's clutching an identicard in his hand like his life depends on it.

He's blindfolded, his head thrown back in the same arc as the rest of his body. His hair is a mess around the dark fabric of the blindfold. His face and chest are flushed, and more sweat slides in rivulets down his neck. His throat works as he swallows. He's biting his lip.

And there's a plug in his ass. Steve can see it all the way from over here. It's bright red, from what Steve can see of it it's absolutely enormous, and it's vibrating. Noisily. Which explains the sound that Steve had heard.

It's plain to see what Tony was doing, and exactly how much he enjoyed it. His cock is nearly all the way soft now, but his stomach and thighs are covered in come, and there's a sizable wet spot on the bed next to him, where it's all dripped down. He clearly had a very, very good evening.

Dear God.

The fear and tension in Steve's gut drops lower, into a sudden pounding arousal, fear and guilt and lust swirling together. Despite himself, his cock is throbbing, aching with need, and the only thing he can think is that he's profoundly grateful that Tony can't see his face now. He can't quite remember how to breathe.

Oh, it's not like he's never thought about Tony. And it's not like he's never thought about bondage. He's just never let himself think about Tony and bondage together, and frankly, he's attempted not to think about them separately. The life of a working superhero involves so much actual bondage that he's always felt vaguely guilty about it even in his fantasies, like it's a kink that doesn't make any rational sense and is therefore best ignored. Still, sometimes, when he really needs to come, he'll shut his eyes and think about ropes, chains, gags, his hands smoothing over his partner's perfectly-bound wrists. He could never have pictured anything as beautiful as Tony.

He's tried so hard not to think about Tony either, over the years. He's practically made sublimation into an art form. The day they met, Tony had smiled at him and held out his hand, and it was like a matinee idol had walked off the silver screen and into Steve's life. Tony is kind, generous, funny, brilliant... and not for him. Tony dates rich, gorgeous, beautiful women, society women, people who know how to play all the clever little power games that Steve can barely stumble his way through. He dates no one who is anything like Steve. Oh, Steve knows Tony used to date men; Tony's mentioned it. He said he had a boyfriend named Tiberius, a long time ago, before his parents died. Tony always made it sound like an aberration. A mistake.

Steve would rather be nothing to Tony than be a mistake.

So if so many of the men who populate Steve's fantasies have dark hair, deep blue eyes, and a thousand-watt smile... well, that's just going to be an unfortunate coincidence.

He can't have Tony. He knows this. But his body sure doesn't. Blood pounds dizzily in his head. His breath is shallow. He's even harder. On the bed, Tony arches again, arms flexing against the restraints, elegantly constrained. He's everything Steve ever wanted, wrapped up like a present, and he can't ever have him.

"Steve?" Tony asks. His voice is hoarse, and there's a thready note of something that might be fear, but Tony is naked and bound and desperately _saying his name_ , and Steve's traitorous cock twitches in his pants. "Please tell me that's you, Steve, or this night's going to be even worse."

Steve realizes he hasn't said anything. Tony has no idea it's him. "It's me," he says, and he hopes he sounds relatively normal. "Just me. I shut the door. No one else saw."

"Thank God," Tony says, under his breath. His mouth shapes into something like a smile, and his face flushes even more. Tony's too olive-skinned to manage a visible blush, most of the time; he must be feeling pretty goddamn terrible if it's actually showing. "I'd tell you this isn't what it looks like," he says, "but that would be a lie."

Steve has to do something. He can't just stand here. He's striding across the room; he's next to the bed. Close up, it's even more awful and wonderful at the same time. Tony's shaking, trembling, a beautiful mess. Tony is clearly starting to panic and Steve's goddamn cock just doesn't care. He swallows hard and walks around the bed to kneel behind Tony. It's not like that view is any less appealing, but it's where he's got to be to get him undone.

"It's all right," Steve murmurs. "I've got you. Hand on your shoulder now, okay?" he asks, because Tony can't see him.

Tony nods, but he still jumps when Steve's hand closes over his bicep. His skin is hot, dewy with sweat, and the muscle beneath Steve's fingers is tight, straining, fighting the rope of the hogtie. Steve's cock twitches again, helplessly.

From this close it's apparent that Tony is in a pretty bad way. The cuffs on his wrists are too tight, and his hands are a patchy dark red, the blood flow constricted. Steve's honestly not sure how Tony is managing to keep hold of the identicard.

"Okay," Steve says. He needs a plan. "Okay. What do you want me to do first?"

He wishes he could be asking this question under better circumstances.

Tony's throat works. "Blindfold."

On the one hand, at least he started with the easy one. On the other hand, that means Tony can look at him, which might be... a problem. On the other _other_ hand, Steve's currently crouching on the floor behind Tony and Tony would have to be able to turn around a lot more than he can right now to see that Steve is enjoying this state of affairs far more than any decent man should. But none of that matters, because this is what Tony asked for. His help.

He resists the impulse to run his fingers through Tony's sweat-dampened hair as he tugs the blindfold off. Tony turns his head over his shoulder, and his wide, frightened, ashamed eyes meet Steve's.

"Hi, Steve," Tony murmurs. This must be all the energy he can muster, because he turns his head back and lets it fall against the pillow.

"Hi, Tony," Steve says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Look," Tony says, through what have to be gritted teeth. "I know this was a terrible idea. You don't have to tell me. But, in my defense, I've done it just fine before. A lot. It's just that I've never done it blindfolded, and I managed to knock the cuff key off the nightstand, trying to pick it up." He jerks his head backwards in an attempt to indicate direction. "I did manage to grab my identicard, though, so there's that."

Steve's staring at what Tony has done to his wrists and ankles, trying valiantly not to let his gaze wander to the toy in Tony's ass. These are purpose-made cuffs, lined, expensive-looking, locked with fairly solid-looking padlocks. The rope looping Tony's wrists and ankles together is done in a very complicated series of knots. Tony's had practice doing this. Tony's done this before. _A lot_ , he said. He wonders how often Tony's done this. He pictures Tony bidding him good night, and then coming up here, tying himself up and getting himself off just like this, for years. One wall away and Steve never knew. Steve breathes in and out, raggedly, trying to keep himself under control. His cock throbs again.

He wishes he could tell Tony how gorgeous he looks.

"I think I did the cuffs too tight." Tony's eyes fall shut in what is definitely shame, and Steve wants to tell him he is farther from judging him than he's ever been. If anyone should be ashamed here, it's Steve. "And I, uh, I can't really feel my hands anymore." The note of panic in his voice is even more pronounced. The identicard slips from his fingers and lands on the bed. "So, uh, maybe you could...?"

Jesus. Steve can't even keep his mind off his dick long enough to remember that Tony is actually hurting. What if he's permanently damaged his hands? God, no, Tony needs his hands. He can't let that happen.

"Of course," Steve says, hurriedly.

He glances over at the nightstand. No key. He looks down at the floor. No key. Did it fall behind something? Under the bed? He doesn't have time to go hunting. Tony needs those cuffs off _yesterday_.

"I can't find the key," he tells Tony.

Tony's arms and legs jerk against the restraints, like he can fight his way out, and then he sags down again, futile, out of strength. "Great," Tony says. He sounds miserable. "That's wonderful."

Okay. New plan. Steve stares at the mess of knotted rope. He can't figure out how Tony did it. He wishes he had a knife with him. He's not even in uniform. That really only leaves one option.

"I have two questions," Steve says. He puts a hand on Tony's arm, near his wrist, his thumb half an inch away from the wide leather band of the cuff. "One, what are those padlocks made of? And, two, how much do you like them?"

"Steel," Tony grits out. "And, please, God, just get this off of me. Whatever you have to do is fine."

"All right."

Steve lets his hand slide up over the cuff, to pinch the D-rings that hold the lock, to immobilize Tony's wrist so he doesn't hurt him. With his other hand he grips the body of the padlock, yanks, and feels the pin give way within the lock. The shank shears off. The lock comes free in his hand, and he drops it on the floor.

"Is that okay?" Steve asks. "Did I hurt you?"

Tony lifts his head and tilts it in a motion that is probably supposed to be shaking his head. "I'm good. Just, please. Keep-- keep going."

He undoes the buckle and pulls Tony's wrist free of the cuff, as quickly and gently as he can.

Tony makes a high, breathy sobbing noise. It's either the circulation returning or, even worse, a compressed nerve. Steve knows from his non-recreational bondage experience that neither of those feel great at all, and Tony isn't lucky enough to share his healing factor. "Fuck," Tony hisses. His voice breaks like he's about to cry. "Fuck, Steve, I'm-- I'm so sorry-- you shouldn't have to see me like this--"

"It's all right," Steve says, which is a far better thing to say than _seeing you like this is either the best or worst thing that has ever happened to me_. "You're my friend. I don't mind. You're going to be okay. I'm going to get you out of this. Next one?"

"Next one." The note of determination in Tony's voice is familiar from years on the battlefield.

The other wrist comes out a little easier, and then at Tony's encouragement Steve also undoes his ankles. Tony's ankles look to be in better condition than Tony's wrists, which is a good sign for his ankles but a very bad sign for his wrists. Steve fervently hopes there's no nerve damage.

"All done," Steve says, unnecessarily.

Steve drops the tangle of rope and cuffs on the floor, and when he looks up, Tony... really hasn't moved, which isn't encouraging at all. Tony has stretched his legs back out, and he's shaking. He's still lying on one of his arms, which can't be good. His other arm has made it as far as his hip, like he wants to pull it over to his front but can't quite get there. That's really not good.

And, of course, there's still a vibrating plug in Tony's ass.

Steve watches Tony's arm flail back, uncoordinated, like he's trying to reach for it but can't get the angle, and that's when Steve realizes--

"Your hands are numb," Steve says. "You can't get the plug out, can you?"

Tony stretches backwards again and makes a horrific whimpering noise, and Steve immediately gets his hand on Tony's arm to hold him back, because, God, he's going to hurt himself more if he doesn't stop.

"I'll get it," Tony grits out. "I-- I can't possibly ask you to-- you can't help me--"

God. Tony wants him to help him with the plug in his ass. Steve is definitely going to remember this later, and he knows he's a terrible person, and Christ, he's still hard. At least Tony hasn't actually looked at him. He doesn't know what will happen when Tony sees him.

He thought they were best friends. He thought, even, that words like _intimate_ applied to their friendship. He never imagined an intimacy like this.

"Of course I can help you," Steve says. His voice comes out of him a hell of a lot calmer than he actually feels. "I told you, you're my friend, Tony. Anything you need."

"You can't," Tony insists. His face is bright red and mostly pressed into the pillow. Steve wonders if Tony is ever going to be able to look him in the eye again.

"I can, actually," Steve says. He marvels at his own voice, at how reassuring he sounds. He takes a deep breath. "I know this is not the best situation. I can only imagine how awful you must feel. But I'm not judging you, Tony. I swear I'm not. Not in the slightest. I know you must feel embarrassed, but there's no way in the world I'd ever make fun of you for... wanting to have a good time, all right?" His hand is still on Tony's arm, and he strokes Tony's wrist just below the reddened skin in a way he hopes is encouraging. "I'm-- I'm glad you trusted me enough to call me. You're going to get through the rest of this. I can help, okay?"

Tony lets his hand settle behind him, arm bent awkwardly across the small of his back. "Okay. If you're sure."

"I'm sure," Steve says.

He pushes himself up, turns, perches to sit on the edge of the bed so he can get a better view. He tries to think unsexy thoughts. He tries to think about something else. Anything else. It doesn't help. Because here's Tony, right here, with a vibrating plug lodged in his ass. The muscles of Tony's ass are quivering, his hole clenching sporadically around the base of the plug. Even his ass looks exhausted. Steve can't help but imagine what it looked like when Tony was working it into himself; he imagines the plug fucking into Tony, Tony's body opening wide for it.

"Can I just--?" Steve starts to ask, and he realizes there's really no way to ask if it's all right if he touches Tony without using actual words. 

But Tony figures out what he's asking. "Yeah," he says. His voice sounds even more strained. "Go for it. Can you turn the vibration off first, please? There's-- there's a switch on the base, big switch, you'll see it--"

Steve sees it, all right. Every detail of this situation will be seared into his eidetic memory for the rest of his goddamn life. He's the world's worst friend.

Steve clears his throat. "Hand on your hip now, okay?"

"Okay," Tony echoes, through gritted teeth.

He wants to brace Tony first, to make this easier -- _yeah, Rogers, you tell yourself that_ \-- but he knows, as soon as his fingertips brush Tony's skin, that there's going to be a problem here. His hand curves over Tony's hip and he can see the tension rush through Tony, a convulsive wave of tightening muscles that has to hurt like hell. Tony's already so tired, but it seems like his body doesn't care. Tony's thigh is shaking and his ribs are trembling and he's just so _tight_ under Steve's hands. And that includes his ass, which clenches around the plug even harder. Tony makes a very small noise of dismay.

Tony is tensing up because Steve's touching him.

 _Oh, God, I'm sorry_ , Steve thinks.

With his other hand, he takes hold of the plug, as lightly as possible, not wanting to force it. Tony's already a wreck. He flicks the switch with his thumb and the plug stills. Tony's ass relaxes, but -- not enough. It's not going to be enough.

"Oh, fuck," Tony breathes. "Oh. Thank you." He exhales, a hard staccato sound that's sort of like a laugh. "That's a lot better. That stopped being fun about fifteen minutes ago, you know? And then it got much less fun, fast."

Steve can't even begin to imagine how sore Tony is, how overstimulated he is, how hypersensitive. And he really, really wishes the thought of that weren't a turn-on.

"I bet," Steve says, softly. "Okay, I'm just going to try--"

He tugs on the plug, just to see -- and, God, it's huge, it's not going to come out. Tony's breath is shaky, Tony's ass clenches harder, and Steve pulls a little in response, resisting. He can't even see the shape of the leading edge. It must be _gigantic_. Most of the lube has dried, which doesn't help matters any. He tugs again, and the noise Tony makes is a bitten-back cry. It's all too much. It has to be too much for him to take. But there's no way out except by doing this.

"Come on." Tony's voice is thick. "Can't you just pull it? Fast? Please?"

Steve shakes his head, even though Tony can't see. "You're really tight, Tony, and it's big, and I don't want to hurt you."

Tony finally turns his head back to glare mulishly at Steve. His eyes glimmer with tears. "I'll be fine."

"If I pull it and it hurts you," Steve says, "you're going to have to explain the internal bleeding to someone who isn't me. I really don't think you want to do that."

Tony shuts his mouth. "Fine."

"We'll take it slow," Steve says. "You need to relax. Loosen up. We can get this out of you. I promise."

"Easy for you to say." Tony bites his lip and grimaces. "This isn't exactly the best time I've ever had."

Steve squeezes Tony's hip in a way that he desperately hopes is reassuring.

"Okay." Steve glances around the room. "I'm going to need more lube."

Tony lifts his hand and flails backwards again. "Nightstand," he says. "Top drawer." His face twists into an expression that wants to be a smile. "You know, where all the toys live. Since this isn't embarrassing enough."

Steve reaches back and opens the drawer. He already knows, more or less, what's going to be in there, and he tries not to look at the dildos and the gag and the cock ring and the nipple clamps, and oh, God, Tony has one of those skin mags of _superhero lookalikes_ and Steve grabs the lube and shuts the drawer and hopes he doesn't come in his pants.

It's a classy brand of lube, expensive, the kind that comes from a specialty store, not one Steve has ever bought, but it figures that'd be Tony. He flicks the cap open, pours it in his hand. It's very slick.

"The good stuff, huh?" he asks. He thinks maybe, somehow, if he keeps talking, he can put Tony at ease. "I just buy whatever's at the drugstore."

Tony snorts. He's quiet for a moment. "Is it weird if I tell you that it feels so strange to hear you talking about-- I mean, I know we never really talk about-- and you're Captain America--"

Yeah, Steve's heard it all before. "We can keep pretending I don't know what sex is if you want," he murmurs, "but I think there's not much point in it."

"Probably not," Tony agrees.

Steve steels himself. "I'm going to--" he says, and he waits for Tony's nod.

Tony shivers as Steve spreads him a little wider, and he breathes in, short and sharp, when Steve finally touches him, rubbing a slick finger hesitantly over the edge of Tony's hole, smearing lube on the jutting plug, on Tony's quivering, tense muscles. Tony's body is warm under his fingertip, his hole slick and dusky pink. Steve has definitely had actual sex that felt less intimate than this.

Tony's still not any looser. He's really going to need to relax.

"I'm really sorry about this," Tony says. "Thank you, by the way. I couldn't think of anyone else I'd rather... trust with this."

 _You shouldn't trust me_ , Steve thinks. Aloud, he says, "There's an entire team of people in this house now."

"Yeah, well," Tony says. "I wasn't going to ask any of the women. Vance is basically a kid. Vision is noncorporeal. Clint would never, ever have let me live it down. And Jarvis is just... no."

"There's Thor," Steve points out. "He's even a doctor, sort of."

There's an expression on Tony's face that Steve can't quite interpret. "Yeah," Tony says. "I suppose there's Thor. But I just-- I thought you--" He sighs. "Never mind."

Steve's other hand is still on Tony's side, and he rubs his thumb over Tony's hipbone. He slides his hand up Tony's ribs. He's petting him. He hopes Tony doesn't mind. It will relax Tony, he tells himself. This is for Tony. He should probably keep talking.

"You know," Steve says, keeping his voice light, "I have to say I'm a little jealous."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Steve says, "I was downstairs writing godawful boring reports and you were up here treating yourself to a lovely evening, huh?"

Tony chuckles -- and then tenses up even harder. "Ow, fuck. Don't make me laugh. Ow." The plug quivers in his ass, and Steve tries resolutely not to think about how this image will now feature in every single one of his fantasies from now on.

"Sorry."

Steve concentrates on coating the plug with lube. He's doing this for Tony. He's helping Tony out. He has to think of it like that. His cock throbs.

There's a thoughtful pause. "You could have, you know," Tony says. "Nobody stopping you from, uh. Saluting the flag."

Talking about his masturbation habits is really not what this conversation needs right now. Steve's cock is soaking his boxers wth pre-come; if the entire room didn't already smell like sex, he's positive Tony would have noticed.

"What," Steve asks, "in the _monitor room_?"

Tony's shoulder moves. It might be a shrug. "Why not? I've done it." 

Oh, God, Steve wishes Tony hadn't told him that. Now all he can picture is Tony, sprawled all over one of the chairs downstairs, lazy and indolent, covered in his own come, just like he is now. Achingly hard, Steve makes a quiet, desperate noise, and Tony -- oh, Christ -- _hears him_.

"I'm sorry," Tony says, quickly. "That was inappropriate of me. Sorry."

"No, it's all right." _More than all right._ "I don't mind."

Steve looks down at what he's doing. He can't really justify adding any more lube. It's all over the plug, his hands, Tony's ass, glistening slickly. Time to try again.

"Guess you're learning a lot about me tonight, huh?" Tony's voice is glum.

"It's really not a big deal," Steve says. "It's-- it's perfectly normal." He shifts awkwardly. The bed creaks. "Okay, I'm going to try again."

He tugs a little harder this time. The plug makes an obscene, wet sucking sound and resists; Steve reflexively works it in a little more and then back, and, God, he's fucking Tony with the plug. The plug's so big that he can't avoid hitting Tony's prostate with it. There's a ripple of emotion that isn't exactly pain on Tony's face, and Tony's spent, come-covered cock twitches against his thigh, and Steve is definitely going to die. The plug's not going anywhere.

"Oh, God," Tony breathes. "I should have gotten the small one, huh?"

Steve takes a shaky breath. "You always dream big, though, don't you?"

Tony just barely stifles a laugh. "I guess you already know me."

Tony has to try to relax more. What Steve is about to say is a terrible suggestion for his further peace of mind, but it's all he's got. "You got it in you somehow," Steve points out. "Maybe you could... think about what you were thinking about when you put it in?"

Steve's heart pounds, and Tony is dead silent. Tony's mouth is a thin line, and his body has gone even tighter.

"I think that would _definitely_ be inappropriate," Tony says, and everything in him closes off.

"This isn't coming out of you unless you relax," Steve says. "You have to know that."

Tony bites his lip. It looks like he's about to draw blood. His face is bright red. "Steve, I-- I can't come again, I can't, it's too much--"

Steve can't help but look again at the mess Tony has made of himself, the come spattering his thighs. He is the very picture of debauchery and the hottest thing Steve has ever seen and Steve is a terrible, awful human being.

"I'm not asking you to come again." Steve makes his voice as calm as he can. He can't believe this is his life. "It's just that, well, a lot of being relaxed is in your mind, and if you thought about something that made you... happy... maybe it would help?"

Tony's hands quiver like he's trying to clench them. "I can't."

"Sure you can," Steve says. "Just shut your eyes. I won't know what you're thinking. I won't ask you what you're thinking. Whatever it takes, that's okay with me. Pretend I'm not here."

Tony's eyes are drifting shut anyway. He must be exhausted. "Okay. I'll try anything."

Tony's ribs rise and fall under Steve's splayed hand. With his other hand, Steve takes a better grip on the plug and is about to try again, when Tony asks, in a very small voice, "Could you keep talking to me?"

Desire runs through Steve like a lightning bolt, and it's an agonizing few seconds of him reminding himself that there's no way Tony can mean it like it sounds before he trusts himself to speak. "What do you want me to say?"

"Anything. I don't know." Tony's mouth twitches in a helpless half-smile. "Something encouraging."

Steve wonders what he's done to deserve this.

"Okay," he says, and Tony settles back down onto the pillow. "Okay. It's going be okay, Tony. We're going to get this out of you."

As he speaks, he tugs on the plug a little and it starts to give way, more than it ever has. Tony's loosening up now. "Shh, there you go," he says. "You're doing good. You're doing fine."

He still has his hand on Tony's side; he feels Tony heave out a long sigh, starting to relax.

"Feeling good, huh?" Steve asks. "Okay, that's good. That's perfect. I'm here. I've got you."

Steve's cock is throbbing and he's sure that there's a wet spot on his pants where his cock has soaked through them and he's a goddamn liar. But this is what Tony asked for. Tony wants him. Just not the same way that Steve wants him.

He tugs harder still; he can see the leading edge of the plug, flat, so huge it's nearly vertical. This is it. This has to be it.

"All right," Steve says. "Here goes--"

He pulls. Tony's slick ass is stretched wide, wide, wide, and for a second Steve thinks there's no way it's coming out. Tony's cock is jumping like his body's trying desperately to get hard again, to make something good out of all the sensation. Tony's eyes are shut and his mouth is open, rounded, as he's battered by pleasure-pain. His mouth is slack, lips dark, bitten-red and wet.

Steve wonders if this is what Tony looks like when he comes.

Steve pulls harder and the plug makes the most obscene sound Steve has heard in his entire life, and Tony's curling up on the bed and gasping like he wants to get away and move toward it at the same time but knows he shouldn't move in either direction.

"Oh, fuck, Steve, fuck," Tony whispers, a low, breathy chant. "Fuck, Steve, please, God, it's too much--"

Everything within Steve is a raw, yearning tangle of need, a live wire, and this is everything he ever wanted, but not like this. Tony is saying his name. He wonders if he's going to come right here.

There's another slick noise, and the plug slides free. Tony makes one last wonderful, terrible sobbing noise.

"It's okay," Steve says. He drops the plug on the bed next to him. "It's okay. It's out."

There are tears on Tony's face. "Thank you," Tony says, fervently. "Thank you."

Tony shouldn't be thanking him for anything.

"You're welcome," Steve says. He doesn't know what else to say.

God, he has to get out of here before Tony notices.

"I should go," he says.

He knows his voice is terse. He pushes himself upright, as quickly as he can -- not an easy feat with the current state of his erection -- and he's edging his way back around the bed when Tony -- oh no, no, no -- opens his eyes and rolls up to sitting.

"I'm sorry," Tony says, again, like he thinks he's the one who has something to be ashamed of here. "I know you didn't-- I'm really sorry I got myself into this and called you and I don't blame you for wanting to leave as soon as possible and I know you'd rather it not have been you and it's clearly an awful problem for you, but--"

Tony stops. Tony is, in fact, staring at Steve's crotch.

"Oh," Tony says, very quietly. "That is... not the problem I thought you were having."

Well, now neither of them are going to be able to look each other in the eye ever again. So much for the wonderful new Avengers team.

"I can't be here." Steve forces the words out. He can barely speak. Tony knows everything about him now. Tony knows what kind of man he is. That he could get off on this.

He backs up. He's stumbling, off-balance. He nearly falls.

"Steve," Tony says, urgently. "Steve, wait, please, it's okay--"

There's no way Steve is staying. He trips backwards across the room to the entrance, slams into the door with his shoulders, finds the doorknob. He just barely remembers to use the hand that isn't covered in lube.

He's in the hall and thank God, there's no one else in the hall, and he's fumbling in his pocket for his own keys and he's in his room. Safe, except not safe, because what the hell has he done?

He kicks the door shut and drops to his knees and he's already ruined everything and he feels like he's going to die if he doesn't come so why not keep ruining it all? He's smearing lube on his pants and he's got his cock in his hand and he's so hard he nearly cries when he gets his fingers around himself. One stroke, two strokes, three, and he's not thinking about Tony, and who's he kidding, of course he's thinking about Tony, and his mind is full of the way Tony looked, bound and blindfolded, like he was waiting for him, and Steve swears and shuts his eyes and folds over himself and comes.

* * *

Steve doesn't sleep all night. He constructs terrible what-if scenarios, like he's stolen Tony's futurism from him and put it together wrong. He imagines resigning. He imagines Tony filing a formal complaint about harassment. He imagines losing his first friend in the future because he couldn't stop paying attention to his goddamn dick.

The sun comes up. He doesn't bother going for a run.

At seven, someone knocks on the door.

"Steve?" Tony calls out. His voice is hesitant. "I think-- I think maybe we should talk."

Steve doesn't want to do this. But Tony is, at least right this minute, his team co-leader. They work together. They have to come to some sort of resolution. He has to apologize.

"All right," Steve says.

When he opens the door, Tony's standing on the other side of it in a worn t-shirt and sweatpants. He laces his fingers together. Steve hopes that means there's no nerve damage. God, he ran out on Tony, and Tony could have been seriously injured--

Steve steps back, and Tony steps inside and shuts the door.

"How are your hands?" Steve asks.

Tony glances down at his hands. "A little sore. No permanent damage. I went down to the infirmary and scanned myself just to be sure. All of me is fine." His face is half a smile, half a wince, like he's trying to make a joke of it; Steve's just glad the plug didn't hurt him either. "I mean, yes, okay, I know it was a stupid thing to do, but we both know it's nowhere near the worst thing I've ever done to my body, right?"

"I'm glad you're all right," Steve says. He doesn't know what else to say.

They stare at each other in silence. Steve waits for it. He pictures Tony turning away.

Tony runs a hand through his hair, a familiar nervous tic. His hair's a little long now; Steve's always liked that. He cuts the thought off, ruthlessly. He has no right to think of Tony.

"So, I, uh," Tony says. "I spent a while thinking about how to say this. I thought about telling you that sometimes... physical responses... just happen, and that's okay. I thought about telling you that I understood that it was an intimate situation, and reacting to it the way you did is normal and natural. I mostly thought about telling you that there was no fucking way I was in any position to judge you for having a hard-on after you'd just seen me tied up and lying there covered in my own come." He raises his eyebrows. "I mean, if we're having a contest about whose evening was more embarrassing, I think I win that one, hands down."

Tony can't be trying to make him feel better. Tony shouldn't make him feel better. He doesn't deserve this.

"Tony--"

"But I think we both know that I don't do things by halves," Tony continues. "And there was something that I really wanted to tell you, most of all. And, God, I hope I'm not wrong about this, but I think maybe you want to hear this--"

"Tony--" he tries, again.

"I was thinking about you," Tony blurts out.

Steve can't have heard him right. "What?"

"I was thinking about you," Tony repeats. "Last night. You asked me to think about something, remember? I was-- you were-- I like you, okay?" There are bright spots of color in Tony's cheeks. "I like you a lot. Kind of, um. Longstanding crush. A lot of feelings. For you." Tony's biting his lip again. "Please say something?"

"Me?" Steve asks, stupidly.

Tony nods. He's shaking, Steve realizes.

"You really want me?"

Tony had asked him to keep talking, and he hadn't even known what that had meant--

"Have you fucking _met_ yourself?" Tony asks, and then he looks away. "Sorry, I know, my mouth, sorry--"

"I love your mouth," Steve says, and now Tony's staring at him, dazed, like they were sparring and Steve's whacked him in the face with his shield. "I love all of you, God, Tony--"

And then somehow Tony's in his arms, and they're kissing and kissing, just like Steve has always wanted, and Steve didn't mess this up, he didn't. Tony is still his friend and Tony can be more than his friend and it's all going to be okay. Better than okay.

Steve pulls his mouth away from Tony's. "Hey," he says. "About that bondage hobby of yours...?"

Tony's breathing hard already. "Yeah?"

"It seems," Steve temporizes, "that it's really not the kind of thing you ought to be doing by yourself..."

Tony's eyes are downcast, like he thinks Steve's chastising him. "I know it was dumb," Tony mutters. "You don't need to remind me."

Steve cups Tony's cheek and gently lifts his head. "Not what I was going to say," he says. "I meant more, maybe you'd like some help? Someone to watch you? Make sure it's all going okay?" He coughs. "They'd be there with you when you started, of course. They could help with the cuffs and the rope and-- and the toys. If you wanted."

There's something bright and joyful gleaming in Tony's eyes now. "I wonder where I could find someone like that."

"Let me think about it," Steve says, laughing. "I might know a guy."

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr post](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/170296862949/fic-a-question-of-trust)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You can't](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15494856) by [notwhatyouintended](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwhatyouintended/pseuds/notwhatyouintended)




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